In the Hole
by Zaney HacknSlash
Summary: When Michael and Jin are taken out of Ana's pit Sawyer is left alone for a few hours with nothing but his thoughts on Walt, Kate and even Jack. Lot's of Sawyer Angst. One shot.


His shoulder hurt like hell. Not just a little pang of discomfort, but a full-blown, horrific ache that had spread down through his fingers, and up into his head. The flesh was on fire, the muscle quivering, and even the bone seemed to hurt. It was like someone had driven a railroad spike into his arm with a sledgehammer. The arm hung limply at his side, and even simply moving his fingers made it hurt worse.

Sawyer leaned back against the wall of the pit with a sigh, trying to rearrange his arm so it was comfortable, but he couldn't relax. It had been a few hours since the Others had taken Mike and Jin out of the pit, and he felt nervous and anxious on their behalf. That big, black guy was pretty rough. Sawyer's head still ached like it had been split in two from when the man had hit him with the club he carried. The guy was brutal. Dangerous. They'd already taken Walt to God knew where, and who knew what the Others were planning to do with his friends.

Friends. Since when were they his friends?

Mike had been an ass about the whole thing with Walt being taken, kicking him off the raft and everything. Even when Sawyer had just been trying to help. But he couldn't think ill of Mike right now. Not only because he'd been taken away by the Others and Sawyer didn't know what was happening to him, but also because he'd seen him crying when he'd woke up this morning, back when they were still on the pontoon of the broken raft. Mike hadn't even tried to hide how upset he was, and his honest, emotional breakdown had been like a splinter in Sawyer's heart.

Not because he cared about Mike so much, but because he knew it was his own fault Walt had been taken.

He closed his eyes and thought back.

Mike hadn't wanted to use the flair—he'd said no, said not to fire it until they knew what it was for sure.

But Sawyer had made him. Forced him. Obviously Mike had known about the gun Sawyer was carrying. Maybe he was afraid of him—scared that he'd shoot him if he didn't fire the flair. So he'd done it. Even against his better judgment. That had been why Walt had gotten taken.

Even if the Others had been specifically looking for the raft, and for Walt, they might not have found it if they hadn't fired the flair. It had been dark, and the wind had been carrying them along pretty well. There was a fair chance that they never would have found them. If only Sawyer hadn't insisted on firing the flair.

Now Mike was out there, blaming himself and thinking it was his own fault that Walt had been taken. If he was even alive.

He'd said so himself . "_It was my fault. I never should have brought him on the raft."_

Maybe not. Maybe Mike shouldn't have brought Walt. Then he'd be safe right now instead of in the hands of the Others…but he'd just been trying to do his best for his kid. He'd wanted to get him off this God-forsaken island. What father wouldn't? Sawyer didn't have any kids. Not really. And he didn't plan to; and his father had died when he was little. But still…

He wasn't an idiot. He knew it was a father's place to protect his kids.

If he hadn't gotten in the way, if he hadn't been so forceful…

Sawyer pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was getting hot: the pit was right beneath the sun, and even the leafy palms laid across the ceiling couldn't keep the light out. He was sweating, and his arm was burning. He wanted to scream, but his mouth was dry from dehydration and his throat was tight from guilt.

Yes…the guilt. He just couldn't get past it, couldn't stop wishing that he hadn't wanted to fire the flair so bad. If he just wasn't so impatient. He should have known it would be the wrong thing to do. He should have known that it would just result in tragedy. Everything he did always got messed up. He was always screwing up the lives of everyone around him. Every time he started to care about someone it was like he panicked and felt like he had to keep them from caring back, so he'd push them away, even without meaning to.

Like with Kate. Now all the survivors knew. They didn't know what she'd done-no one knew that-but they knew she was a fugitive, and they weren't going to trust her now. That was his fault. He had tried to tell himself that it was just because she'd tried to take his spot on the raft, because she'd cornered him, but it didn't help to think that. Especially now. If he had just let her have the spot, if he had just stayed on the island things would have been better: She, Mike, Jin and Walt would probably all be on the raft right now, safe and sound. She wouldn't have insisted on firing the flair and the Others wouldn't have found them. Walt would be with his dad.

And Sawyer wouldn't be dying of thirst in this pit.

He raked a hand through his hair. It was all matted with blood, caked with salt from the ocean and dirt from being dragged through the jungle like an animal.

Sawyer rubbed his shoulder. The pain made him feel like he was going to throw up. Wouldn't that be just perfect? Rotting here in this pit in ninety-degree plus heat with a puddle of rancid puke?

The con artist lowered his head, pressing his brow against his knees, took a deep breath. He could hear voices out there, above him somewhere. It sounded like that bitch who'd pretended to be one of them, and he thought he heard Mike too. But he couldn't be sure.

What he wouldn't give for some water.  
What he wouldn't give to get Walt back…

If something had happened to the kid, if that bastard with the beard had hurt him, and if Sawyer ever found that son of a bitch, he was going to shoot him. That would be the first thing. No hesitation, no looking back, just squeeze the trigger and blow the bastard's fucking head open.

Some day, he promised, he'd get Walt back. He'd help Mike find that kid no matter what—he owed him that much, after getting him taken. It was a debt he just had to pay back some day. Not just for Mike and for Walt, but to clear his own conscience. How could he go to his grave with something this heavy on his shoulders? If Walt died that blood was on his hands.

No. That wasn't okay. That couldn't happen. He had to atone for this somehow, even if that meant dying in the process of getting Walt back. Hell, if he could have gone right now, if he had any idea what direction to go, he would have gone. Bullet would or no bullet wound. But he couldn't even climb out of this pit by himself.

"I'm pathetic." He muttered.

"_You're not even worth what it would cost us to incarcerate you"._ The stupid, Aussie dick had been right. He wasn't worth anything at all. All he ever did was hurt people.

Why should Walt pay for all of his mistakes? That wasn't fair.

So that was that. As soon as he got the chance, he was going to get the kid back. He was going to help Mike. He was going to pay this debt off, even if it was the only good thing he ever did in his whole life.

And he was going to murder the asshole who'd taken Walt in the first place, in cold blood.

Doc had been right to give him that gun. It had saved his life—if Mike hadn't shot that shark… Sawyer shuddered to think of what could have happened. He wondered if Jack had known they'd run into trouble. No. He wouldn't have let them go if he had known. Sawyer guessed the doctor was just so used to things going wrong, and over-prepared so often that he was good at anticipating trouble.

Too bad Jack hadn't been on the raft. Then they wouldn't have taken Walt. He never would have let Mike fire the flair without being sure it was a good idea. He wasn't impulsive like Sawyer.

Too bad Jack wasn't here now. His shoulder was hurting even worse as time progressed, and it would be nice if the doctor were there to at least look at it, tell him if the bone was broken or shattered or whatever.

But he was back on the beach…with Kate. Completely unaware of what had happened to the raft and the people on it. Hopefully the Others hadn't shown up for Claire's baby too. Hopefully the French chick was wrong and everyone back at the beach was okay. Kate included.

He hadn't gotten a chance to say goodbye to her. He really regretted that now. The last thing he'd done to her was made sure she couldn't go on the raft, and had totally ruined her reputation with the other survivors. She probably hated him too now. But he didn't want her to hate him. Not her. Even if the whole rest of the world hated him…not Kate.

Why? Why was that?  
He tried to think about when Kate had started meaning so much to him. He'd liked the look of her the second he laid eyes on her, but that hadn't gone much beyond regular, old lust. After trekking through the jungle with her though he'd seen that she was brave and spirited, and then he'd learned that she was sweet and compassionate. Compassionate even to an asshole like him. He hadn't really expected that—but then, no one had ever known about the letter before. Everyone who had ever known about his quest for vengeance had sneered at it or tried to use it against him. Like Hibs, the man who'd sent him to Australia on a wild goose chase.

But not Kate. She had shown him something different. She was trying to find the human being she believed existed somewhere inside of his cruel, heartless exterior. And she had found it, somehow.

He was grateful towards her for showing him that kind of grace, for trying to understand what made him act the way he did.

"_From one outcast to another? I'd try harder."_

Why had he never seen it before? Why had he never recognized the own emotions that were clouding his head? He wanted to be near her. He wanted to protect her. Some part of him believe that if she cared about him he wasn't too far gone.

That was it then.

He loved her.

And he wanted her to love him back.

But that was never going to happen. He might never even see her again, and now he'd never get his chance to say he was sorry, like he should have in the first place, and he'd never get to tell her…

Sawyer looked at the copious amount of blood running from the bullet wound and smiled grimly. He wondered if this was going to kill him.

He wouldn't mind dying so much at the moment. He might actually deserve death for all the selfish, asinine things he'd done. But not yet. He had to get Walt back before he could die.

And before that happened, he had to get out of this pit.

The voices above him were more distinct now, and he heard footsteps. Sawyer stood up, body tense; if they pulled him out he might be able to fight…but not very likely with just one arm.

Maybe he could run. If he got back to the beach and told Jack what had happened to Mike and Jin then they could come back and save them. Together.

No. The doc would probably fix his arm and tell him to go to bed before leaving or something. Typical.

It was all wistful thinking anyway. His head hurt and he was dizzy. Running was unlikely. Fighting was impossible. There were just too many of them.

The big, black guy tossed the door to the pit open, glared down at him with those dark eyes, and lowered a vine for him to climb.

With a deep breath, Sawyer grabbed it in his good hand, and they pulled him up into the sun again.


End file.
